


The Long Game

by albaparthenicevelut



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6210622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albaparthenicevelut/pseuds/albaparthenicevelut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Phryne aren't exactly going anywhere fast but they are definitely enjoying the ride, their friends and coworkers... Not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which underlings should never, under any circumstances, be trusted

Jack Robinson’s day did not appear at first glance like it would be at all out of the ordinary. He woke at six o’clock, as was his habit, went cycling on his usual route, ate a filling, if uninspired breakfast, and arrived at work at eight o’clock on the dot. When he arrived however the first warning signs were already manifesting.

Constable Collins was at his desk having a whispered conference with Miss Fisher’s Red-Raggers. When he entered, the three broke off their conversation and gave him worryingly assessing looks. Jack had no idea what possible reason the three might have to conspire but he suspected nothing but trouble. Giving them his best blank stare, he hung his hat and coat up on the hook, and went to do what he always did now when he suspected mischief, ring Miss Fisher.

“What are you up to, Phryne?”

“This is Dottie Williams, Sir. I’m afraid Miss Fisher isn’t up yet but I’d be happy to let her know you called when she wakes… Sir.”

Jack frowned slightly. Was that a tad more nervousness in Miss Williams voice than usual, a shade of guilt perhaps? It was hard to say. Dottie Williams was always a bit nervous when answering the telephone. Phryne had told him once that her priest thought the electricity in the phone lines would react with the molten core of the earth and explode everything, which was certainly a, well, original notion. Still, she had begun sounding less nervous on the phone of late.

“Thank you, Miss Williams… And by the by, you wouldn’t happen to know why Cecil and Albert are here, colluding with Constable Collins, would you?”

“Colluding, Sir? I just sent them over to bring Hugh his helmet. He left it in the kitchen when he came over for tea yesterday evening.”

“Ah. Well, thank you again. Give my regards to Miss Fisher when she wakes.”

“Of course, Sir. Good bye.”

“Good bye, Miss Williams.”

He set down the phone and made a wry face. There was certainly an easy way to test Miss Williams’ story. He got up and poked his head out of his office. In the intervening time, Bert and Cec had left. Collins was sitting at his desk, head bent studiously over some paperwork. 

“Collins, whatever did the Red-Raggers want?” Collins looked up. His face resembled nothing so much as a deer staring down an oncoming automobile. 

“Want, Sir?”

“Yes, Collins, want. After all, they must have come to speak with you for some reason. I wanted to know what that reason might be.”

“Oh, yes, Sir. They wanted me to check out some nonsense about a crooked copper. It seems that Bert thinks one of the sergeants is taking bribes. Was in a pretty good froth about it too. I said I’d check it out, Sir.” Jack cocked an eyebrow.

“Really, Collins. Sounds serious, I think you had better give it thorough investigation. In fact, I expect a preliminary report on the matter on my desk tonight.”

The look on Constable Collins face was extremely entertaining, to say the least. Jack closed his door and left Collins to stew.

* * * *

An hour later his phone rang.

“Jack, why ever are you phoning me at uncivilized hours of the morning?”

“Good day to you as well, Miss Fisher. I’m doing quite well, thank you for asking. I was simply trying to determine why Collins and your communist friends were communing in the front office of my station this morning.”

“That is a little unusual, but not suspicious, surely.”

“When it comes to your Red-Raggers, everything is suspicious. Did you send them?”

“As a matter of fact, no. I am as mystified as a you are.” 

“Well, I have it from Miss Williams that they were bringing Collins his helmet, which he had forgotten in your kitchen the evening previous. Collins, however, informs me that Bert and Cec want him to investigate a crooked detective sergeant. Naturally, I told him to investigate the matter thoroughly and bring me a report on it by the end of the day.”

“Oh naturally. Jack, the poor boy.” Her voice was richly laden in amusement. Jack smiled slightly.

“Well, it sounds like it could be a serious problem. I wouldn’t wish to be derelict in my duties to the public.”

“Oh no, of course not. You are a servant to the law, after all.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, I shall of course begin my own investigation of the matter. I’ll call you if I turn anything up. Good bye, Jack.”

“Miss Fisher.”

Jack set down the phone and smiled in satisfaction. That ought to do it. Nobody withstood Miss Fisher’s curiosity for long.

* * * *

Miss Fisher swanned in several hours later. Phryne Fisher steamed, floated, sashayed, swaggered, swayed, and, on certain dubiously legal and/or perilous situations, crept but she never, ever, walked. Today’s attire was a simple but elegant, a pleated steel blue skirt, ivory shirt, and a cloche that matched her skirt. As usual she looked immaculate. 

“Ah, Miss Fisher, what brings you to my office today? Suspicious deaths? Violence? Mayhem? Do I need to arrest anyone? Yourself, perhaps?”

“You’ll be pleased to hear that none of the above is going to be an issue… I believe… It’s only noon so I’m not ruling anything out entirely. No, I’ve come to report that Dottie, Bert, Cec, and Hugh have all proved surprisingly intransigent, if tellingly inconsistent in their explanations.”

“I’m shocked. You, fail to charm, harass, or manipulate information out of someone?”

“I know. I was particularly disappointed by my failure with Hugh. I thought that he would be the sure thing.” Miss Fisher sighed and looked so put upon that Jack couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m sure he’ll fold like a cheap suitcase before long.” He said. She sighed, an amused glint in the back of her eyes.

“Yes but can my self-regard survive until then?”

“Miss Fisher, I have every confidence that your self-regard could survive anything.” He replied dryly. She laughed.

“Well, I was passing the kitchen and I happened to hear-” Jack shot her a fondly sardonic glance. 

“Hush, Jack. As I was saying, I happened to hear Dot, Mr. B., Bert, and Cec discussing a certain establishment familiar to us both, The Imperial. They seemed to be planning a trip. Now why, of all people, would Dot, Bert, and Cec be going to the Imperial together, Inspector?”


	2. In which our intrepid detectives thoroughly frustrate each other, also murder

“Why am going along with this again?” Jack asked quietly. “If my colleagues get wind of this, my reputation will never recover.”

He jumped as Phryne shifted, causing her irritatingly large and feathery hairpiece to tickle his face. He leaned back slightly and brought the hand that had been resting on her low back up to brush it away from his face. 

She reached up, caught his hand, and brought it down to rest between her shoulder blades. The skin there was not covered by the slinky black number she was wearing tonight. It was extremely soft. He couldn’t quite resist allowing his fingers to stroke it lightly. She shuddered almost imperceptibly and he found his mouth curving upwards in satisfaction despite his pique.

“I don’t see what you’re so worried about. It isn’t as if you’re availing yourself of the escorts. For all intents and purposes, you’re having a casual drink with a friend.” Phryne replied. Her tone was light but there was something a little breathy about her voice. 

He could feel the warm puffs of her breath against his neck and smell her French perfume. A wave of arousal washed over him. Jack assumed his longest suffering look and willed himself to think about a particularly terrifying maiden aunt. 

“Yes, but by all appearances, I’m having an assignation against the wall of a brothel and nightclub.” He replied, sliding the hand between her shoulder blades up to lightly clasp the back of her neck. He had not intended for his voice to sound low and gravelly but her facial expression made it worth it. If he was going to make a fool of himself, so was she.

“Well, we’ll just have to figure out what they’re up to quickly, won’t we?” She said lowly, recovering her composure admirably. Arousal once again washed through him and he cleared his throat, forcing his mind back to Aunt Hortense. Phryne shifted against him again. Damn it. 

“Would you stop?” He hissed. She surveyed him through heavily lidded eyes. Her pupils were blown wide enough that only a thin layer of crystal blue was visible. Her lashes were long and dark.

“Stop what, Jack?” She murmured, a hint of a smirk on her face.

“You know very well. Do you want me to keep an eye on Miss Williams and the Red-Raggers or stand here and do my best to think of ice and corpses and terrifying old Aunt Hortense?”

For a moment Miss Fisher looked utterly poleaxed. Then she let out a peal of laughter, which she hastily muffled against his shoulder. Jack dipped his head and pressed his lips to her neck, which had the twin advantages of causing her breath to hitch and allowing him to hide his own smirk. When had his life become so absurd?

He and Miss Fisher were pressed up together against the wall of the Imperial, mostly obscured by a curtain and a ficus plant. Their vantage point was perfect for observing Dot, Bert, and Cec. Anyone who caught a glimpse of them, however, would think them a pair of nightclub goers locked in an amorous embrace, which, Jack wryly reflected, wouldn’t be totally or even mostly inaccurate. Miss Fisher sighed and tilted her head farther to the side to give him easier access.

“Oh dear, I wasn’t really expecting you to be that blunt.” She said. Her voice sounded husky and just slightly breathless. Jack nipped the soft, vulnerable skin just under her jaw line and allowed himself a moment of smugness at the low, helpless noise she made.

“Good, I’d hate to be totally predictable.” He said lightly. Movement caught his eye and he tensed minutely.

“What is it?” She asked.

‘Dot’s sister has joined them. They’re talking, they’re on the move….” He tracked their progress under the guise of kissing Phryne- Miss Fisher’s shoulder. She waited, body once again subtly tensed and alert, rather than languid. Jack allowed himself a moment of regret.

“They’ve gone into one the back rooms.” He continued, murmuring it into her neck. He slid his other hand, which had been on Miss Fisher’s waist, around to her low back and brought her closer. Her breath was still slightly shallow. He let his mouth curve into a smile and then let go of her. She huffed in frustration and stepped back.

“I suppose we’d better follow.” She said. She looked slightly flushed and not a little frustrated.

“I think that would be for the best.” He replied.

Revenge was sweet. 

Which, of course, was when the unmistakable sound of gunfire and screaming rang out on the streets outside. Then just as quickly as the sound died and there was only silence. Phryne and Jack exchanged a quick glance and, having reached a wordless and almost instantaneous accord, ran for the door that led to stairs.

Jack dug out his own gun, knowing that Miss Fisher was doing the same beside him. They dashed down the grand staircase, dodging the club-goers who were rushing upstairs off the street, and ran for the front door. The doorman was crouched by the door. He held what was in all likelihood an unregistered pistol.

Guns out, Jack and Phryne eased the doors open and peered out. The sidewalk was clear of people with one exception, a young lady dressed in a lovely dark blue silk dress lay facedown on the pavement just in front of the footpath that lead up to the club doors. Dark liquid was spreading across the ground around her. She was utterly still. Behind them, somebody cleared their throat. They turned to face a rather sheepish looking Constable Collins. Dottie and the Red-Raggers stood behind him, also looking a little guilty.

“Why Constable Collins, Dot, Bert, and Cec! It is very odd that all of you should be here together tonight!” Miss Fisher said in tones of faux surprise. Hugh cleared his throat again, this time in discomfort.

“Just escorting Dottie to visit her sister, Miss.” Bert said. His habitual shortness did not quite cover the awkwardness of the lie.

“All three of you? How gallant.” Phryne replied, raising her brows.

“Ah, yes, Miss, well you know us. We think the world of Miss Williams.” Said Cec. Jack sighed.

“Collins, secure this club. There are people up there who ran inside when the shooting started; nobody leaves until we can question them. And I need you to call for backup.” He said peremptorily.

“Yes, Sir.” Collins hastened off to do as he was bid. Miss Fisher leveled another penetrating look at her employees, all of whom avoided her gaze.

“Dot, would you question the doorman please? Find out what he saw if anything.” The doorman in question looked a little hunted.

“Yes, Miss.” Miss Williams replied.

“Excellent! Shall we, Inspector?” Jack threw open the door.

“Of course. Miss Fisher.” Together they headed out into the warm night.

It was a gorgeous night, warm and heady, but alas, Jack reflected ruefully, entirely spoiled by the presence of a corpse. Still, he couldn’t help the feeling of rightness walking with Phryne to investigate a murder. This was what they did and they were undeniably better together than apart.

Phryne, never content to wait, had pulled ahead and was crouched gracefully next to the dead girl, inspecting her with sharp eyes. Jack, as usual, continued to walk at a measured pace, allowing himself to reach Phryne in his own time.

“That is an extremely expensive gown, very modish, very distinctive. It probably came from ‘Giraud & Batiste’, which is a new arrival in Melbourne but rapidly becoming known for its more… experimental’ gowns. It is totally ruined of course, poor thing. Whoever shot her did it from behind. Look at the way she fell and the wounds.” Miss Fisher said, letting her gloved hand brush the back of the girl’s head lightly where blood flowed in an ever growing pool from a deep bullet hole and then pointing down to a hole high on the girl’s back. Jack squatted down.

“She’s still got her jewelry, some of it very expensive looking, so probably not a robbery. So either the attack was random or the attacker recognized her from behind…” He mused. Phryne nodded her agreement.

Jack leaned down and carefully examined the ground around the victim. A clutch that matched the dress lay on the ground near her. The victim had clearly dropped it as she fell. He slid on his leather gloves, picked up the bag, and opened it. All there was inside was a respectable but by no means large wad of cash, a compact mirror, and a pair of white gloves. There was nothing that might be used for identification. Phryne watched him, eyes sharp with interest. He grimaced.

“Some money, a mirror, and gloves. Nothing very useful.” She made a disappointed face. By now a police cars were pulling up to set up a perimeter and begin the grim work of securing and thoroughly cataloguing the crime scene. Jack stood up and walked carefully around the corpse to offer Phryne a hand up.

“Shall we go upstairs and see about our witnesses?” She took his hand and smiled.

“Let’s.”


	3. In which a murder investigation begins

Miss Williams joined them just inside the front door of the club. She was clutching a pen and a piece of paper (probably purloined off Hugh).

“Mr. Wilkes, that’s the doorman, Miss, Inspector, says he didn’t see the shooting but he did see a man dressed in dark clothing, with a hat, and a scarf wrapped around his face flee the scene headed east down Coburn.” She explained.

“Thank you, Dot.” Miss Fisher said cheerfully.

“Inspector, it might be a good idea-” She began.

“To send some constables eastward in search of the murder weapon and perhaps witnesses? Yes, I know ” Jack finished with some asperity. “I did manage to stumble through investigations before I met you.” Phryne looked a little abashed.

“Excellent. I intended no slight to your abilities Jack.” She said lightly.

“Of course not.” Jack replied, dry as dust. He turned, pulled the front door open, and gestured one of the constables over.

“Take a couple men and head east. Keep an eye out for a discarded gun and witnesses who saw a man in dark clothing, a hat, and with scarf over his face, knock on doors, ask questions, the usual.”

“Yes, sir.” The man replied. Jack turned back and saw Miss Fisher headed towards the stairs at a trot, Miss Williams following in her wake. He shrugged and caught up to them in a couple long strides.

“So our victim was shot from behind in front of one of the most popular nightclubs in the city on its busiest night of the week… yet her valuables were untouched.” Miss Fisher mused. Jack looked over.

“Odd, certainly, but it would be premature to speculate at this point.” Jack replied. Miss Fisher mock pouted.

“You’re no fun Jack.” She said.

“I am exceedingly sorry to disappoint.” He replied fighting back a smile. It wouldn’t do to visibly enjoy oneself too much at a crime scene, even if Miss Fisher did not care whatsoever about the appearances of such things.

When they reached the top of the stairs a constable was standing by the door. 

“Is Collins inside?” Jack asked.

“Yes, Sir. He’s managed to separate out everyone who was outside when the shots started. Most people didn’t really see anything in the panic but there are a few useful witnesses.”

“Excellent.” Jack replied. He, Miss Fisher, and Miss Williams pushed their way through the doors. 

As they entered the room, Collins quickly flagged them down. 

“Hugh, I hear you have witnesses for us!” Phryne exclaimed. Hugh Collins produced a little notebook from his pocket and began consulting it.

“Ah, yes, Miss and um, Inspector.” here, he sent a slightly sheepish look in the Jack’s direction. Jack shot him a wry glance in return. He’d given up on stopping Collins from responding to Miss Fisher as if she were a commanding officer. Collins continued.

“There are several who saw the shooting unfold. The shooter killed our victim at point blank range; he was at most three feet from her when he took his shot. All the witnesses think that it was a man based on height and build. Accounts agree that he was quite tall, at least 5′10. His face was entirely covered but as he approached the victim he knocked into one of the hostesses, a Miss Maria da Silva as she walked to the club to start her shift.”

“And have you been able to identify the victim?” Jack put in. 

“Ah yes, according to Miss da Silva, our murdered woman was another hostess, Alice Winston.”

“Very expensive clothing for hostess….” Phryne mused thoughtfully. “A dress and jewelry like that would be well beyond her salary, even accounting for side income from the gentleman patrons. It must have been a gift…”

“Perhaps from a gentleman admirer? Frustrated or embittered love is a powerful motive.” Jack finished. “Excellent work, Collins. May we speak to Miss da Silva?”

Collins nodded and motioned them over to a small dark complexioned woman in a deep emerald dress. She was vigorous and animated looking, with intelligent chestnut eyes and thick dark curls. She looked, however, deeply shaken by the night’s events.

“Miss da Silva, I’m Inspector Jack Robinson of City South station. This is my associate Miss Phryne Fisher, lady detective. Would you be willing to go back over tonight’s events for me?” The woman smiled shakily.

“Well, I… I was on the street, oh, 5 feet from Miss Winston when someone ran into me from behind. I stumbled and turned to tell the person what I thought of their manners and caught a glimpse of light brown hair and light eyes and the gun he was taking out of his pocket…” She paused. “I shouted that he had a gun but it was too late. He shot the poor Miss Winston down right in front of the club, and kept on running.”

“Is there anything about the man physically that might help us identify him?” Miss Fisher asked. The woman shrugged helplessly. 

“It was all so fast… I’m not sure I could tell you much. I did notice that he wore gold rimmed eyeglasses and that his clothes were plain and dark but of decent quality.” Jack found himself exchanging a glance with Phryne. The gentleman admirer theory seemed more and more plausible.

“Were you close to the victim, Miss da Silva?” Jack asked. Maria da Silva sighed tremulously. 

“Not really, no. We got along but Alice was reserved. She didn’t really socialize with the rest of us.” She replied.

“Do you have any idea why?” Miss Fisher asked. Miss da Silva shrugged.

“Not at all. She was secretive but not in a way that tended to stand out if you weren’t already paying attention. Looking back, I don’t think she ever gave a straight, detailed answer to personal questions but she tended to remember everything people told her and she was good at asking the right question to keep you talking. You’d realize when the conversation was over that you didn’t even know where she was from but you’d told her all about your sister’s new baby or something. It was odd but people here understand the need for secrets so we didn’t ever push.”

“Did she have any enemies or close associates?” Jack asked. In his peripheral vision, he noticed a completely silent (but no less expressive for it) exchange occurring between Miss Fisher and Miss Williams. It involved exaggerated glances and eyebrow movements on Miss Fisher’s side and eye rolling and grimacing on Miss Williams. With one final resigned frown, Miss Williams turned and walked off, doubtless to speak with her sister. Jack carefully kept his face blank despite his amusement and fixed his attention back on Miss da Silva’s answer.

“Not that I was aware of. She did have a gentleman who came to see her more nights than not, Edmund Tarrant. He really liked her, bought her all sorts of things, that dress for instance, but I don’t think there was ever any expectation on either side of it being more than an exchange of goods and services. Some gentlemen just like to throw their money around. Mr. Tarrant has a lot of that to spare.”

* * * * *

The rest of the witnesses were no more helpful. Alice Winston was well liked by regulars and hostesses alike but nobody really knew much about her. Even Madame Lyon, her employer, did not know her address. Fortunately, in this one area, Miss Williams’ efforts with her sister had borne fruit. One of the hostesses had an aunt who lived on the same street as Alice and had seen Alice entering her lodgings on her weekly visits.

Miss Fisher and Jack parted ways not long after, Miss Fisher to collect Miss Williams and wrangle her communist cabbies into taking them home for the night and Jack to go to Alice Winston’s lodgings with Collins in search of more information.

He drove them through the narrow streets of Melbourne’s poorer districts. Collins kept quiet. There was a distinctly guilty cast to his silence. It was truly late now and the small houses that lined the narrow streets were dark and still. Finally, they turned past yet another cramped kitchen garden and found themselves at a rickety but fastidiously whitewashed, wooden bungalow. It was nearly midnight and the house was dark and shuttered.

Jack and Hugh stepped out of the car, walked up to the door, and knocked on the door. Few minutes later a young woman, small but sturdily built, with long dark red hair, fair skin, and a faded dressing gown pulled the door open. 

“Alice, how many times have I told you to remember your bloody key. I have to be up at 4 in the bleeding-“ She ground to a halt and stared at Jack and Hugh, taking in Hugh’s uniform. Her face morphed from a look of fury to fear.

“What do you want?” She blurted out.

“Miss, my name is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson and this is my constable, Hugh Collins. Is this the residence of Alice Winston?” The woman sagged backwards, clutching the doorframe with whitened knuckles. She jerked her head in rough acquiescence.

“Why are you asking? What happened?” She said sharply.

“I’m afraid we have some bad news and some questions for you to answer, Miss—?

“Jones.” She said faintly. “Catherine Jones.” Jack nodded politely.

“May we come in, Miss Jones?” He asked. She nodded and released the doorframe, falling back to lead them into a cramped but tidy living room. 

Catherine Jones took their news stoically and with almost belligerent composure. She sat in one of her hard, bare wooden chairs, pressed her lips together, and bore their conversation quietly. It was not outside of the normal range of behaviours that Jack had seen people exhibit in the face of terrible news but it was a slightly odd. It seemed to not to shock Catherine that Alice was killed.

“Forgive me for saying this, but you don’t seem very surprised by this news. Did Alice have any enemies? Any reason to hide?” Jack asked. Catherine nodded.

“A year ago we started getting anonymous letters in the post, frightening letters... threats you know… Then one day we found our cat strangled on the doorstep with another letter pinned to it saying that we would be next. We moved, changed jobs, changed our names, everything and the letters did stop… We were so careful.” He mouth trembled slightly before firming. “I suppose we weren’t careful enough.”

“Did you keep the letters?” Jack asked. 

“Yes. I didn’t want to but Alice insisted. She said that they were evidence and that we would regret it if we didn’t. I didn’t see the point. We went to the police with the first couple letters. They were useless.” Catherine said bitterly.

“I’m afraid that we’ll need the letters, Miss Jones.” She nodded.

“Of course.” She replied. “Will you need anything else tonight?” Jack inspected the tense set of her mouth and the fragility in the cast of her eyes.

“No, Miss Jones. That will be all for tonight.” He said.


	4. In which Phryne utilizes the fine art of bribery

Jack had no illusions that Miss Fisher would not be beating down his door to get what he and his men had turned up last night, either that or bothering Edmund Tarrant. He’d given up pretending to himself that he didn’t find her antics charming. So when he came in the next day, uncomfortably early given the amount of sleep he’d managed to get, it was with the expectation of seeing Miss Fisher by mid-morning. 

He was not disappointed.

“Jack!” Phryne cried. She was carrying a basket with her, which was both good and bad. Good because it smelled strongly of Mr. Butler’s excellent quiche, bad because it meant that she felt the need to bribe him, an ominous sign at best.

“Miss Fisher.” He replied, raising a questioning eyebrow. She set the basket on the desk and opened it. The scent became stronger. Jack kept his gaze on Phryne. She pushed a plateful of quiche in his direction.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” She said. She sounded put out. He took a bite of the quiche and chewed slowly, a no doubt rapturous expression stealing across his face. Tobias Butler’s quiche, bliss.

“Why bother? I know you’re going to tell me either way.” He said when he’d finished his bite. She sighed dramatically. But seemed to concede.

“Cecilia Tarrant.” She said.

“Yes?” Jack replied.

“I know her... well, Aunt Prudence knows her. Unhappy marriage… Unhappy is probably the wrong word to describe, characterized by a deep, mutually vituperative hatred would be better. She married Tarrant for material reasons, shall we say. Fair enough from the sounds of him but she probably should have concealed it a bit more effectively. He was very upset. Apparently Edmund Tarrant has public affairs with prostitutes, spends large sums of money on them, humiliates her in her social circle out of pure spite. Someone on the receiving end of such behavior would have a powerful motive for murder, wouldn’t you say?” Jack was impressed despite himself.

“You got all of this between last night and now? Normally you aren’t even awake at this hour.” He said dryly. Phryne grimaced.

“Not voluntarily. Aunt Prudence showed up unannounced at eight o’clock this morning to harangue me about Jane. I made the best of a bad lot.” She replied. Jack winced in sympathy.

“Ah. Is anything the matter with Jane?” Phryne laughed.

“She walked right out of etiquette school the other day. I can’t blame her, the teacher is an awful woman but Aunt Prudence insisted Jane go in the first place and paid for the entire thing herself so she was livid when she heard.” Jack nodded, opened his mouth to question Phryne further, remembered the ongoing murder investigation, and pulled himself back on track mentally. 

This happened a lot around Phryne. He was pretty sure she did it deliberately, talking in circles and tangents until she’d made her interlocutor lose their conversational bearings. Then she would lock back in on her original purpose and move in for the kill. Jack tried never to be the kill. It set a bad precedent.

“So you suspect Cece Tarrant… All the witnesses described a man.” He pointed out. Phryne showed no sign of being fazed by the rapid shift.

“She’s wealthy. She might have hired somebody.” She replied. Jack looked back dubiously.

“That seems unlikely to me for two reasons. One, taking out a hit on one of the many prostitutes your husband visits seems expensive and not very satisfying as far as revenge goes and two, Alice Winston and her roommate had a stalker sending them threatening letters a year prior to even meeting the Tarrants.” He replied. Her eyes went wide.

“Jack, you beast! Alice had a stalker and you didn’t say right off?” Jack smirked. 

“You didn’t give me the chance.” He said, taking another bite of the quiche. She took out a fork and snaffled a huge bite of the quiche, smirking when he made a wounded noise.

“Nonsense.” She replied. “You’re winding me up… just like last night.” Jack adopted his most innocent expression, which he promptly ruined by shoveling another bite of quiche into his mouth.

“Well, there is a stalker.” He said between bites. “He left threatening notes… genuinely frightening… they kept them… I’ll let you see them in a minute… killed their cat and left it on the doorstep…” He paused to chew and swallow.

“After the cat incident, Alice and her roommate, a Miss Susan Jones, left their previous lodging and jobs and cut off all contact with people from their life prior.” Miss Fisher frowned and a pained expression flashed briefly across her face. Jack felt a pang. He knew her well enough now to recognize it as her Rene Dubois expression.

“So we have a stalker, the disgruntled wife of a client, anything else?” She asked.

“Not so far. But I think you’re right that we need to interview the Tarrants.” Miss Fisher beamed at him upon hearing the “we.” Jack’s couldn’t do anything but smile back.


	5. In which Jack and Phryne endure a great test of their fortitude and virtue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter, sorry. I also wanted to say that I really appreciate the kind comments that some of you folks left, as well as the kudos. It's lovely to have people reading my work.

Jack has interviewed murderers, rapists, and pedophiles. He fought in the trenches of WWI, regularly sits through meetings with the upper echelons of the Australian constabulary, and even spent one seemingly endless afternoon undercover at the annual Melbourne accountants’ gala (Jack privately thinks that it was this assignment that got him his promotion; there is putting dangerous criminals to justice and then there is true heroism) but never has Jack so badly wanted to shoot somebody as he does Edmund Tarrant.

He and Phryne are sitting in Tarrant’s spacious and well-appointed study questioning Tarrant. Phryne is wearing a sweetly attentive smile, which would normally have Jack tackling her to wrestle some sort of lethal weapon out of her hands in time to prevent homicide. Not today, today he is privately hoping that she’ll stab Tarrant with the stiletto that he knows she has tucked into her garter belt. 

He imagines her reaching beneath her skirt to draw the knife, in the process revealing a shapely thigh and perhaps a glimpse of lingerie, and realizes with some horror that a) he has entirely tuned Tarrant out (understandable but very unprofessional) and b) that he’s well on his way to being visibly aroused in the office of a person of interest in a homicide investigation. 

Jack drags himself back to the present, which, unfortunately, still involves questioning Edmund Tarrant, who would be very attractive (thick chestnut hair, intense gray eyes, strong symmetrical features and build, etc.) were it not for everything that has come out of mouth since they entered his house. When Jack had informed him of Alice’s death, he’d shrugged and made a noise about ‘what a shame it was, beautiful girl, and so conveniently undemanding.’ 

Jack had found his eyebrows climb his forehead, seemingly of their own volition. Phryne’s pleasant expression had not even wavered. Jack privately suspected that spending any significant time around the upper classes made one immune to callous rudeness. The interview hadn’t really improved from there. Tarrant had told them baldly that he hadn’t had a close relationship with Alice. He just knew that his wife found it embarrassing when he publically splurged on prostitutes. 

“So your wife knew about you and Alice?” Jack had asked. Tarrant had laughed.

“I hope so. Otherwise all that money I spent on that ridiculous dress was a waste. Why? Do you think Cecilia did it? She’s a cold enough fish to kill someone but let’s be honest, if she did it would be me lying there dead, not one of the many prostitutes and mistresses I’ve kept over the past decade. I was getting tired of Alice anyway, Cece would have known that.” Never had Jack so desperately wanted a drink but he’d nodded politely. Then he’d leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Could you account for your whereabouts last night?” Tarrant had laughed again. Jack allowed himself to imagine hitting Tarrant. It helped a little.

“I'm a suspect now? What possible reason could I have to kill a glorified whore? I ate dinner with Cecilia at seven and then went to ‘the Blue Lady’ with some work friends until one o’clock.” He replied. Phryne smiled charmingly. 

“Do you have anyone who can confirm this?” She’d asked. Tarrant shrugged, nonchalant.

“Cecilia can confirm the dinner times, if she doesn’t decide to get me hung for murder. The friends I went out with were Richard Brooks and Andrew Millhouse. They work at the same law firm that I do. They can confirm where I was. Will that be all? I have plans for my day, plans that involve better things than being interrogated by detectives-” He shot Phryne a lascivious glance. “Though I could certainly alter that if the Lady Detective feels like an afternoon out.” Phryne smiled icily.

“Well, we will need to talk to Mrs. Tarrant, if you please.” He shrugged, unperturbed by her disinterest, and rung a bell. A moment later the butler stepped into the study.

“Wilson, please let Cecilia know that the police wish to speak to her.” He turned to Phryne and Jack. “You can interview her in the parlour. I won’t have her in here. Wilson will show you.” And with this extraordinary bit of rudeness, he got up and left. Jack looked over at Phryne and shared a moment of deep accord on the subject of Edmund Tarrant. ‘Let’s maim him.’ Her expression said. ‘Nobody will mind and many will be pleased.’ Jack quirked small smile back at her. Together they followed Wilson to the parlour.


	6. In which there is some investigating and maybe just a little alcohol

Cecilia Tarrant was as polite and reserved as her husband was rude and blunt. However, the attractiveness gone sour with bitterness and anger was just as fully on display with her as it was with her husband. She received them in the parlour with icily correct politeness. It did not come close to disguising her fury at being questioned about her personal life, particularly her husband’s indiscretions.

She was, she owned, completely aware that her husband visited and showered gifts upon mistresses and more humiliatingly (from her perspective) prostitutes but she didn’t try to learn who these women were anymore. She reserved her anger for Edmund. She hadn’t even known Alice Winston’s name, much less what she looked like and she preferred it that way. 

All in all, it was not a very useful interview. If Cecilia Tarrant knew anything she had locked up around it as tight as an oyster around a pearl. She confirmed the first part of her husband’s alibi, more out of a desire to avoid any further scandal than out of any concern for him and firmly showed them the door. Once again on the doorstep of the Tarrant’s graceful mansion, Jack shared a rueful look with Phryne.

“I suppose those letters are our best bet after all.” Phryne murmured.

“Come back to my office. Maybe we’ll find something new.” Jack replied.

Famous last words, Jack found himself thinking tiredly. He massaged his forehead. He and Phryne had been sitting in his office, he, hunched over the desk, she, perched on the chair in front of it for hours, poring over the letters. The space in front of them was littered with scraps of paper, police notes, pencils, and of course a years worth of some of the most perfectly vile communications Jack had read in a long time. There was also a half full bottle of whiskey and two empty glasses. If Jack must wade through the psyche of the kind of person who stalks and harasses to women to the point that they move and take on new identities, he needs a bit of lubrication. He’s only human. 

The letters are short but nasty. They reveal an intimate knowledge of both Susannah Jones and Alice Winston. Interestingly, the letters seem far more focused on Susannah than Alice, something that, considering last night’s events, seems a bit incongruous to both Jack and Phryne. They are written on old newspapers, butcher’s paper, and what seemed to be discarded envelopes, addressees and senders heavily blacked out with India ink. The messages themselves had been composed entirely from letters that had been cut and pasted from magazines. One particular magazine if the matching font throughout was any indication. Jack made a mental note to get Collins on figuring out the publication.

“Whoever did this was decently well educated.” Phryne mused looking up to meet Jack’s eyes. Jack nodded. The letters were impeccable in both grammar and spelling, despite the short and brutal nature of their messages.

“Probably not at all well off, though,” Jack replied. “The paper. It’s all recycled scraps and stolen post.” Phryne’s eyes lit up. She grabbed up an envelope, laid a sheet of notepaper over top of it and began to rub lightly with a pencil over the blacked out address. Jack gave a cry of delight and began to do the same on another envelope. Thirty minutes later they are looking at reasonably clear rubbings of the addresses on every single envelope the stalker used. They all come from the same few streets. Jack pulls out a map of Melbourne and traces over the markings putting pins down when he locates one of the streets. They are all clustered around each other in the same general area. He looks up at Phryne and smiled in satisfaction.

“Well,” Phryne said. She looked like the cat that had got the canary and some cream and a couple mice and possibly a nice spot of fresh fish as well. “That is certainly something to go on, don’t you think?” She refills both glasses and holds one out to Jack. He takes it and toasting her lightly, tosses the whole thing back, laughing she follows. 

The evening blurs after that. He and Phryne end up walking out of the station, arm and arm, laughing and perhaps swaying a tad. Bert and Cec are outside, having answered Phryne’s summons. He hands her into the car.

“You gonna come along copper?” Bert asks gruffly. Jack frowns in confusion at this rare piece of generosity from Albert Johnson. 

“Well you can’t very well drive yourself home in this state.” Bert clarified, looking shifty like… like a shifty thing. Jack makes sure to inform him of this. Cec’s mouth twitches slightly and Bert snorts. Jack finds himself frowning. Are they mocking him?

“Oh come along, Inspector! One last nightcap!” Phryne cries. She’s a little louder than she might be normally but aside from the swaying motion, she looks bright eyed... perhaps a little too bright eyed... maybe glassy would be a better description? Jack blinks, mulling this over.

“I think we’ve already had…” He tries to count in his head. It doesn’t work. Ah well, fingers are good, except when they randomly double in number and move around… very odd. He frowns and gives up. “… Many. Many nightcaps.” He finishes. She smiles winningly at him. He folds. It isn’t a victory for her if he wants to go... it isn't. He climbs into the car and grins foolishly when she beams at him. Suspiciously amused sounding coughing erupts from the front seats of the cab. Jack does his best to ignore it. His dignity is at stake here.


	7. In which there are hangovers and perhaps worse, hangover cures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely readers! I am moving slowly but I am moving. I swear.

Jack wakes up in the most comfortable bed he has ever slept in. This is entirely negated by how severely hung-over he is. He cracks his eyes open and just barely manages to choke back a groan. Oh dear God, the light. Knocking sounds and he actually groans. What the hell?

Tobias Butler sticks his head in the door. Jack throws a hand over his face, covering it entirely. Dear God, what fresh humiliation is this? And why did he get roaring drunk with Phryne at the station last night? Was his better judgment on extended leave? So many questions and so little brain capacity to deal with them... 

Mr. Butler cleared his throat from beside Jack’s bed. Jack just about threw himself off the bed. Somewhere in the midst of his internal monologue he’d lost track of Mr. Butler’s progress through the room. To find him suddenly a foot away was- startling. Only his pounding head held him in his place under the covers, that and some concern about what he was (or rather wasn’t) wearing underneath them. 

Surreptitiously feeling around beneath them, he congratulated himself on his caution. He was definitely nude. This led him quite logically to the question of who had undressed him. He was reasonably certain Phryne had been as drunk as he and would thus have been in no condition to be putting him to bed. It was definitely something to ponder when he was once again alone... or perhaps not, there were questions that should remain unanswered. As a Detective Inspector, Jack considered himself an expert on whether questions ought to be answered and this fell firmly in the 'best left a mystery' column in Jack's considered professional opinion. Mr. Butler set a glass of something murky on the bedside table.

“My special hangover cure, Sir. Miss Fisher swears by it.” He said composedly.

“Ah, well that is a strong recommendation.” Jack replied. He did not manage the same level of composure. Damn. 

“By the by, do you know where my…” Jack paused attempting to screw his courage to the sticking point. He failed, ignominiously. Fortunately Mr. Butler twigged his meaning.

“Your clothes, Sir? I took the liberty of having them cleaned and pressed. In the meantime, I’ve left a dressing gown on the chair. I assumed that you wouldn’t have to go into work on a Saturday. I hope this suits you?”

“Um, yes. That is fine, Mr. Butler.” Jack replied. Mr. Butler smiles. Curse him even his smiles are composed.

“Excellent! Breakfast is in the morning room in an hour. Miss Fisher will most certainly be about by then. I’ll let her know to expect you.” And with that Mr. Butler turns and neatly exits the room.

Jack is left wrong-footed and with the strongest feeling that he has been expertly railroaded. He takes a deep gulp of his hangover cure and gags when something thick and odiferous assaults his mouth and sinuses. Is that… is that horseradish? Something else for the 'best left mysterious' column he supposes. He fights it down. Inspecting the glass’ murky contents he grimaces ruefully and throws the entire thing back. He might as well take his medicine. 

(It does make him feel almost instantly better. This is of little comfort.)


	8. In which there is breakfast but no clothing

Mac was at the breakfast table. This was embarrassing for Jack given that he still had no clothing of his own and bore obvious signs of having stayed the night but he called on all his reserves of implacability. The key, as one learned after spending any amount of time with Phryne, was to look as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring. Mac raised her eyebrows.

“Should I be congratulating you then?” She said, directing the question at Phryne. Jack rolled his eyes so hard, he was concerned that he sprained something.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Mac. I really don’t.” Phryne replied loftily. Mac let her eyes flick between Jack and Phryne expressively. Phryne huffed but did not otherwise reply. Jack watched their easy, wordless communication in fascination. He had never quite gotten the full story of Phryne and Mac’s association but their ability to have whole conversations without words was telling in and of itself. Dottie came in bearing a tray of assorted breakfast items. She seemed a bit piqued. 

“The Inspector stayed in the guest room.” She said directing the words at Mac. “He and Miss Fisher were up late at the station going over their case. They ended up having some drinks and Bert and Cec thought it would be best to take them both back here.” She set the tray down with enough force to make the contents rattle and clatter. 

Jack frowned slightly. That was an unnecessarily thorough reply and the undertones of annoyance were… odd to say the least. Had Dottie been irritated to have him over so late? Mac snorted contemptuously.

“Of course. I should have realized murder and alcohol were involved somehow. When did this case turn up?” She asked Jack and Phryne

“At the Imperial.” Dottie put in. She wore a pained expression. Mac turned to look at her, wide-eyed and burst into howls of laughter. Phryne was looking between her lady’s maid and her longtime friend with an expression of bright interest. Jack meanwhile could feel his eyebrows ascending further and further up his forehead.

“Really? Mac’s in on whatever this conspiracy is too? Is there anyone in their acquaintance who isn’t?” Phryne said. Mac was still doubled over with laughter. Dottie’s mouth had begun twitching. Mac dragged together the shreds of her composure. 

“We didn’t involve your Aunt Prudence.” She said slightly breathlessly.

“Well that is a comfort.” Phryne replied sardonically. 

“It’s something.” Jack said dryly. “I wouldn’t have chosen the word 'comfort' myself.” Mac laughed again and opened her mouth to speak. Which of course, was when Hugh burst into the room followed by Mr. Butler.

“Cecilia Tarrant was found shot in her bed this morning.” He announced to the room at large. Jack looked at Hugh, made to get up, looked down at his dressing gown, and turning to Mr. Butler who had followed Hugh into the room. 

“You wouldn’t be able to obtain me clothing, by any chance?”


End file.
